


Journal

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Diary/Journal, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Poetry, Pre-S9, post 8x23
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas stumbles into the bunker late one night after the angels fell. He's too quiet, so Dean gets him a journal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journal

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd as always. Lemme know of any mistakes, suggestions, etc.

Dean opened the door slowly, curious what he would see, and also a little bit wary.

Cas had shown up at their door just as he'd promised, soaked, shivering, and feverish, weeks after the angels fell. After wrapping him in a tight hug, both brothers led him downstairs to get cleaned up. Dean had helped him out of his wet clothes while Sam took his backpack and put it in the room they'd kept for him. Cas had taken a shower, put on a fresh set of clothes from Dean, and then they'd sat him down to eat. He was famished and thirsty, going through four glasses of water and six bowls of the stew Dean had made. Sam gave him some mess to help his fever, and then the new human went to bed bundled tightly under three blankets. He'd barely said a word all evening, and the brothers didn't pressure him.

The first few days, Cas didn't talk much. He was quiet, grieving, Sam said, as well as recovering from almost getting hypothermia. He stayed quiet for a while too, speaking only when necessary. On a hunch, when Dean went to town at the end of the week, he bought Cas a journal. A thick one, with a brown faux-leather cover. "Maybe it'll help," he'd said when he gave it to Cas along with a set of pens. "To figure things out." Cas had looked at it thoughtfully, and said softly but sincerely, "thank you, Dean."

The ex-angel spent a good deal of time writing in the journal when he wasn't doing other things, and he did gradually begin to open up. He let Dean train him in using a gun, and in turn helped the brothers and Kevin with their hand-to-hand. He and Dean watched TV sometimes after a hunt, and spent hours in the library with Sam. He'd taken to using the last name Winchester when asked questions, too, which made Dean glow with pride inside.

The former angel was currently in the shower, his room empty as Dean stepped inside. The hunter was rather impressed with what he saw. He made a point to give Cas his privacy, and in the other man's nearly four months living with them in the bunker, Dean hadn't been in this room once. Now, looking around, he held back a smile. The once blank walls were now covered with pictures, both drawn and photographed. Some were from monster hunts or books Cas had found in the Men of Letters library, but most were pictures. Sam had found an old Polaroid camera, and apparently Cas had been putting it to use when the others hadn't been paying attention. He had photographs of the trees and the animals that lived in the woods around the bunker, deer and flowers and birds. Mostly, though, the pictures were of the brothers and occasionally Kevin. Sam in the library working, Dean cleaning his gun, Dean laughing, Kevin doing archery, Dean reading over a case, the brothers arguing. There were more of Dean than anyone else.

And there, on the nightstand, was the journal that had finally piqued Dean's curiosity. He walked over and picked it up, sat down on the bed, and opened to the first page. It was a poem.

 

_I don't believe in magic anymore._

_I've lost what little hope I had._

_The nightmares come when darkness falls_

_But all of the dreams are in my head._

 

_All I can hear are the screams in the night_

_The sobs, the pleading, the cries._

_All I can see is misery,_

_And it doesn't go once the tears have dried._

 

_I'm curled in a ball in the corner of the room._

_An angel that has lost its wings._

_No longer a glorious dispeller of doom_

_But a useless broken thing._

 

_The light is gone and now I'm trapped_

_In the storms of Sorrow in my mind._

_I weep for all the love I've lost_

_The ones who left me behind._

 

It was so sad, full of emotion, and really good. Dean flipped through the rest of the pages Cas had written on. They were filled with poetry, and pretty good stuff, too. Cas had very nice handwriting, he noticed. The poems toward the beginning of the book all had the same somber, sorrowful tone, but they got brighter and more upbeat the further Dean got. He came across a scrap that he really liked:

 

_I will not be the tool with which_

_A tyranny is carved._

_I would rather see the tyrants_

_Bloody, bent, and scarred._

_The people will not suffer long_

_Such cruelty and greed,_

_They will not rest ‘til those who are_

_In slavery are freed._

 

"Bit of a rebel there, Cas?" he smiled to himself.

"Yes, that word has been used to describe me quite often." Dean jumped at the voice from the doorway, turning to see Cas in a t-shirt and jeans, his black hair damp and messy.

"Whoa, hey, Cas, I didn't mean-" Dean said hurriedly, putting the journal down.

"It is quite alright, Dean. I have come to understand human curiosity quite well," he interrupted, a gleam in his eye and a small smile on his face. "What do you think of them?"

Dean opened and closed his mouth a few times, before giving in.

"They're, um. They're really good, Cas," he replied. "I like this bit." He opened the journal and pointed to the page as Cas walked over to see. The black-haired man nodded.

"I have not yet finished that one, but I agree. Somehow it does not surprise me that you appreciate that piece of verse most."

"It's kind of... Me." Dean blushed slightly as he spoke.

"I was thinking of you when I wrote it," Cas said simply. To the brunette's quizzical look, he elaborated, "With the exception of your father, you have never followed orders. When heaven told you that you had to be the vessel for Michael, you refused. You averted the apocalypse, tore up the rule book and would not stand for the tyranny of the archangels, or even the rule of God. You have always been a bit of a rebel, and it inspires me."

Dean was silent, processing what Cas had said so bluntly.

"I impress... you?" he asked skeptically, finally. Cas nodded.

"Of course. You have always impressed me. Since I first pulled your soul from the Pit you have impressed me."

"How?" He demanded to know what he could have done to impress an angel. Cas sat down beside him.

  "Most souls, even after only a few years in the pit, will break. You did not break for thirty years. That in itself is an accomplishment. Even afterwards, when your soul should have been tarnished and charred, it shone brighter than anything in that blackness. I rebuilt your body, put everything back in place, and you looked-" he cut himself off. "Then, though you knew I was an angel, you still persisted in resisting my commands, resisting Heaven, tried to find your own path. Even the Prophet did not foresee your choices with Michael and Lucifer. And your determination in helping me to... Make the right choices, take my own path. You have never stopped trying to help me, despite how everything I do always seems to end in flames." He sighed softly. "And... I must thank you for that." They were quiet for a few moments, before Dean whispered,

"You're welcome, Cas. You're always welcome." He put a hand over Cas' own, hesitantly but comfortingly. Cas turned it over so their hands were settled palm to palm, and leaned into Dean's shoulder. The hunter squeezed his fingers tenderly.

He didn't realize Cas was crying until he felt a few drops of moisture on his shoulder and felt Cas' shuddering breath. He glanced down to see Cas' face scrunched, and tears streaming down his cheeks. The hunter turned toward him and pulled the smaller man into his embrace. Cas shook in his arms, breathing short, and shivering. He had not yet had time to completely break down and grieve for his family. Now he leant on Dean, and the hunter supported him, as he always had, and always would.


End file.
